


What Were the Chances

by achray



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: First Time, M/M, PWP, Pre-Series
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-09
Updated: 2013-01-27
Packaged: 2017-11-15 22:51:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 12,731
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/532658
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/achray/pseuds/achray
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John is frustrated. And then he meets a tall dark stranger on Hampstead Heath. And then he meets him again and moves in with him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into English available: [Jakie były szanse.-TŁUMACZENIE](https://archiveofourown.org/works/3613179) by [Toootie](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Toootie/pseuds/Toootie)



> I was in an airport at 5:30am, my flight was delayed, I was bored, this happened. I'm pretty sure the Heath is still known as a famous cruising ground, but other than this general knowledge references to London geography are entirely imaginary. Set at least a few months before Sherlock and John meet for the first time in canon. Unbeta'd and minimally checked over, so please point out any errors and I'll fix them.

John got up from the table with difficulty, leaning hard on its sticky surface, extracted his cane with a clatter and eyed the crowded bar. Across the booth, Mark broke off from the yelled conversation he was having with the over made-up brunette beside him and looked up.

“You off, then?” he shouted, over the din of the pub.

“Yes,” John half-shouted back. “Early night, sorry.” He gestured towards his leg, explanation for everything.

Mark nodded. “Catch you soon, mate,” he mouthed, or something obviously resembling it.

The rest of the lads were scattered across the heaving pub. John could see Bill and Dave at the bar; Steve, a couple of feet away, was practically falling down the cleavage of a girl who looked about half his age and might as well have been wearing a school uniform. He didn’t feel inclined to say goodbye to any of them. Making his way across the pub was excruciating, waiting for people to see him, glance at the cane and then apologize, not meeting his eyes, and stand aside to let the cripple pass before returning to their cheerful yelling at one another. John gritted his teeth and tried to stay calm. The cooler night air, tinged with autumn, was a relief, though the thought of the journey still to come – curbs and stairs and escalators and people standing up for him on the tube, or even worse, having to ask them to stand up – lay on him like a weight.

The evening had been a disaster. He’d thought it would be a few pints and some reminiscing, but he’d somehow blanked out that the sole aim of this particular group of friends was to compete to pull the fittest woman they could find, and to swap stories about the weekend before when they’d done the same. John knew he’d been there himself, not so very long ago, and with better stories and more adventurous women than any of them, but now? Now the only woman who’d shown any interest in him all night had had pity and sympathy marked all over her kind face: unbearable. He’d had nothing to add to the sexcapade stories, and the fact that none of them had even called him on this made him feel like a fucking eunuch, like the cane was a mark of failure and impotence.

He could almost wish it were true. He couldn’t remember ever being more desperate for sex in his life: for a hand, a generous mouth, a warm body, someone, anyone, to make him feel that he wasn’t entirely invisible. He’d thought it might be a relief to joke about it, get a few claps on the back and some sympathy, but they hadn’t even asked, and the evening had descended into the torture of watching the others trying to get off with women while he pretended to be content watching the crowd.

John got to the end of the street and paused. At that moment, nothing seemed less appealing than going back to his miserable bedsit for a lonely wank. That way lay the tube and his route home; to his right, up a short hill, was the gate onto the Heath. He looked at it for a moment. It wasn’t a cold night, but it was already well after eleven. It was stupid, criminally stupid, to walk across Hampstead Heath in the dark with a fucked-up leg, practically an invitation to muggers to come and get him. Well. Let them try, thought John. It wasn’t as though he had anything worth stealing, and in any case he felt like doing something stupid and dangerous. He’d go for a short stroll, calm down a bit, and then head back; he hadn’t been in Hampstead for years, but he thought there might be another exit near a station, if he cut across this section of heath. He headed for the gates, determinedly.

The heath was quiet, but not that quiet. John tightened his grip on his cane when he saw a figure approaching, but it was a nervous-looking young man, eyeing John as though he might be the threat. He passed two more men, one having a smoke by the side of the path, one sitting on a bench apparently doing nothing, both of whom glanced at him quickly and then looked away, before he caught on. He was on _that_ part of the heath. Now he was thinking it, there had been a certain intent aimlessness to the people he’d passed, and round the next corner he noticed two dim figures emerging from the trees to the side of the road and quickly separating.

So. The sensible thing would be to walk quickly on and look for an exit. But a very bad idea was nudging at John’s mind, an even more stupid, dangerous and reckless idea. These were men looking for sex: unlike the women in the pub, they wouldn’t be fussy, they didn’t want to be chatted up, and there was no chance he’d see them again. If he just sat down on a bench, like the one a few metres ahead of him, for a short time – most likely nothing might happen, and he’d head on – or something might. And if it did, it wouldn’t be the first time he’d had casual sex with a man, in the absence of other options. The way he felt tonight, the thought of a stranger’s hand on his cock, or a mouth, God, he hadn’t had a blow-job in over a year – it was worth a bit of risk. In fact, the thought of the risk was turning him on, making his blood sing in his veins.

He stopped in front of the bench, in shadow from the tree behind it, and then sat down, carefully. For the first couple of minutes, nothing happened. John wished he had a cigarette to roll, something to occupy his hands; he folded them in his lap and glanced at his watch. He’d give it fifteen minutes, then leave. Someone was approaching: he looked up, but it wasn’t a man, more like a boy, dark-skinned, young and scruffy, acne marks on his cheeks, too young to be out looking for men like John. He met John’s eye, hopeful, but John deliberately looked away. He might be desperate, but that didn’t mean he was going to shag a teenager who should be out with his friends, not cruising in the shadows by night.

Another couple of minutes passed, and then there were footsteps from the other direction. John looked up, casually. He had a brief impression of height, dark hair and posh clothes, sharp eyes that assessed him briefly and sharp cheekbones, and then the man was past him in a swirl of overcoat. John felt a brief pang of disappointment: the stranger was more attractive than anyone he’d seen, but his gait hadn’t had the casual saunter of someone looking for possibilities; he looked as though he was on his way somewhere. John watched his back receding, thinking of giving up, but at a junction of paths a hundred yards away, the man paused, spun on his heel, and started walking back towards him, just as fast.

John’s heart-rate picked up even as he told himself he’d probably just mistaken his way. But when he got to John’s bench he stopped at the end of it, fished in his pockets, and took out a cigarette and a lighter. John watched his profile light up in the brief glow. He licked his lips and forced his hands to relax. He didn’t know if he was supposed to be looking, or saying something: now that something _was_ happening, or maybe happening, he was at a loss as to how to get it to happen.

The stranger, however, took a drag of his cigarette and then looked directly at John, nothing subtle about his gaze.

“Meeting someone?” he said. His voice was unexpectedly deep and cultured.

“Umm,” said John, clearing his throat. “No.”  Intelligent speech had deserted him.

The stranger quirked a corner of his mouth upwards, as though entertained by John’s incoherence.

“Coming?” he said, and jerked his head towards the stand of trees about twenty yards from the path, in deep shadow. He didn’t wait for an answer, he was already walking swiftly towards them, cigarette glowing in one hand, by the time John collected himself enough to grasp what was going on. He heaved himself up awkwardly and followed, clumsy over the rougher ground, cursing his leg. If the stranger hadn’t already noticed he was a cripple, he certainly knew now; John concentrated on his feet, but he felt that he was being watched.

When he reached the clump the man was waiting for him, he gave John an incongruously bright, social smile, and ducked under a branch to stand on the far side of one of the trees, invisible from the path. John followed. Concentrating on walking had steadied him; he no longer felt nervous, and this man might be taller than him and surprisingly confident, but he was also younger, posher and softer, with his carefully unkempt curls and immaculate dress. John tried to scan him unobtrusively to see if he was high, which seemed a logical assumption, but his eyes weren’t clear enough in the dimness for him to see the signs.

“Don’t worry,” said the man, with an undercurrent of what sounded like amusement. “I’m clean and sober. Relatively speaking. I’m not going to rob you or rape you.”

“Likewise,” said John, annoyed, squaring his chin. “And just as well, because you’d find I can take care of myself.”

“Oh, I don’t doubt that for a minute,” said the stranger. His voice seemed to have deepened, and his gaze swept from John’s feet to his face with unmistakable interest. John felt the mood shift between them, and his breathing quickened.

“Well,” said the man. He took a drag, then dropped the end of the cigarette and ground it under his heel. “Now that’s established, what do you want?” He peered at John intently, eyes scanning his face. “Let me guess. You want me on my knees, sucking your cock.”

John swallowed convulsively, and tried to formulate a reply. The combination of those words and that voice had gone straight to his groin, and he was abruptly more than half-hard. He cleared his throat.

“No reply necessary,” said the man, still amused. “Here, like this.” He stepped forward into John’s space, almost into his arms, and before John had gathered his wits, the stranger had crowded him back two half-steps, till his back hit a tree, and then gracefully slid down John’s body till his mouth was level with his groin.

“Oh my God,” said John, involuntarily. The man looked up at him, smiling in a satisfied way at the effect he was having, and slid a hand over John’s erection; John couldn’t help a sharp gasp. The stranger started unbuttoning and unzipping him, still caressing.

John felt an unwanted tendril of common sense intruding into the red mist of lust. “Wait,” he said, or tried to say, as at the same time the man rubbed the palm of his hand over the top of John’s cock, through his boxers. There were condoms in his wallet, he needed to reach his back pocket, but – oh! – he couldn’t get to it without moving – 

The man in front of him took one hand away from trying to pull down John’s boxers to rummage in his own coat pocket, and came up with a foil packet. John took it, fumbling to get it open. The stranger had leant in and was breathing hotly on his cock through his boxers, and John couldn’t help pushing forward into the contact. He finally got the wretched condom packet open – fingers not working properly, all his attention on the man in front of him sliding down his underwear, freeing his cock in the cooler air, making room to work with – and reached down to put it on. But the man’s hand came up swiftly and plucked the condom from his fingers, and then his hand was on John, loosely – and then he rolled the condom on with his mouth and took him deep, and John lost the ability to process further.

He let his head thunk back against the tree behind him and dropped a hand involuntarily into the man’s curls, gripping loosely. He was vaguely aware that his cane had fallen with a clatter onto the roots beside him, but he couldn’t care less; the world had narrowed down to the sensation of heat and pressure, and he had no attention to pay for anything other than the unbelievably lewd things that the man’s tongue was doing to the head of his cock. The stranger pinned him with one hand on his hip and took him deeper, expertly. John made a helpless noise, the man in front of him hummed round his cock, and he couldn’t keep quiet any longer.

“Fuck,” he said. “Oh fuck, that’s amazing, fucking hell.” It was as though this man knew exactly what John needed, just the right amount of teasing combined with stronger suction. John felt himself being drawn towards the edge: he wanted this to last forever, but he couldn’t hold out against such relentless pleasure, after so long. When the man moved his other hand up to stroke at the soft skin behind John’s balls, the sensation of that skin-on-skin contact was too much, and John was suddenly overwhelmed by orgasm, unable to stop himself from crying out softly and thrusting once into the mouth on his cock. He was gasping as if from running, and quivering with aftershocks, knees unsteady, as the stranger pulled off carefully, slid off the condom and carelessly tossed it towards a bush.

John felt… amazed. That his earlier desire had been answered so definitively seemed too good to be true.  There must be a catch: perhaps the stunningly good blow-job was a prelude to this man wanting something from John that John wouldn’t want to give, though to be honest in this state he felt like he might agree to anything, in sheer gratitude and relief. He reached down and tucked his cock back in as the stranger pushed himself up to stand just in front of John, his mouth slightly swollen. John was tempted to close the short distance between them and kiss him, but he put the thought away: that would be inappropriate.

“That was,” he said, slightly croaky. “That was fantastic. Thank you.”

“My pleasure,” said the stranger. His tone was less facetious than before, though, and he was breathing hard, restrained tension in all the lines of his long body.

“Shall I?” said John, and made a vague gesture that he hoped would be interpreted as “return the favour.” He could certainly slide to the ground – the idea had strong appeal – though he wasn’t sure what his bad leg would think of it, and getting up again might be a problem.

“Not with your leg,” said the stranger, as if this were obvious. “Your hands.” He took one of John’s hands, impatient, and guided it to his erection, gratifyingly hard; John moved his hand experimentally, and the man grunted a little, eyes fluttering closed for a moment. Encouraged, John brought his other hand down and started undoing the man’s belt and then trousers, fiddling with old-fashioned buttons. When he reached inside and pressed the heel of his hand against the stranger’s cock, straining towards him through soft underwear, he braced his hands on the tree, bracketing John, and huffed out a breath into his hair.

John was still a little unfocused, but he was also buzzing with satisfaction, and it was a turn-on to have this strange man, undeniably attractive if not someone John would ever have approached in his real life, quivering under his touch. John pushed at his trousers and underwear until they slid down just enough, then spat on his hand and concentrated on teasing the head of the other man’s cock, and moving his other hand down to cup his balls, which drew another small choked-off sound from him. John stopped teasing and starting stroking in earnest, wondering what he preferred.

“Like this?” he said quietly.

“Yes – ah – you can, a bit harder.”

John tightened his grip and moved his hand faster; he added a twist on the head that made the man’s hips snap forward and produced a bitten-off gasp, muffled in John's hair. John wished he could see his face, but perhaps that would be too intimate. His hand was starting to ache, but he could tell that the stranger was getting close. Daring, he slid a hand round, down the back of his sagging trousers and into the cleft of his arse: the stranger groaned, low and startling, just above John’s ear; he sped up his stroke, then after another few, stretched-out moments John felt him pulsing, shaking, and held him through it. The man slumped forward, so that for a brief minute his heavy warm weight was on John, and then abruptly pushed himself to standing. He pulled up his clothes unselfconsciously and started buckling his belt. John’s hand was sticky. He wiped it on the tree, which didn’t help much.

“Right,” said the man, briskly. He looked entirely put together again, whereas John felt rumpled and covered in come. His – partner cocked his head slightly and surveyed him. John wasn’t sure what to say.

“Afghanistan or Iraq?” the man said.

“What?” said John, thrown. “How do you know…?”

“Irrelevant,” said the man, his smirk belying the dismissive  tone. “Glad to have it confirmed.” There was a ping from his pocket and he took out a phone and studied it a minute.

“Work calls,” he said. “Enjoy the rest of your night, doctor.”

“Wait, do you _know_ me?” said John, panicked. But he was seemingly no longer of interest: the stranger had already whirled round, stooped agilely through the trees, and walked off, and John could hardly run after him.

He leant back against the tree again, giving himself a few moments recovery time. He was sure he’d know if he’d ever met that man before; he didn’t exactly seem the forgettable type. Probably just lucky guesses based on John’s injury or – or something. What did it matter anyway: the sad truth was, John thought, that there was no-one in his life who would be either especially bothered or interested in the fact that he’d been cruising for gay sex on Hampstead Heath, except his therapist who would almost certainly blame his mother.

The last twenty minutes or so already seemed dreamlike. Some kind of – of bizarrely knowing and eccentric sex genius had singled him out, given him one of the hottest encounters of his life, and then promptly disappeared. Admittedly that was in the nature of their encounter, but still. And John wasn’t even gay, he didn’t fancy men, on the whole. Yet even though he’d just come, thinking about the man’s mouth on his cock was arousing him again. If he’d had him in a bed, been able to take some of his clothes off, if a condom hadn’t been necessary…

John shook his head to clear it, and crouched down awkwardly and painfully to retrieve his cane, and then limp back to the path, pretty sure that anyone who looked at him for more than a minute would know exactly what he’d just been doing. He didn’t care. He walked back towards the entrance he’d come in by, and when he got to the gate, he had to school his face out of a silly grin, before going out to face the world again with a brisker step.  


	2. Just a Glance Away

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John meets Sherlock. For the second time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> With thanks to DFW airport and assorted airlines for several hours of very productive writing time. This is turning out to be my spontaneous, un-beta'd airport fic: will make no sense unless you've read the first part already. 
> 
> References here to 'A Study in Pink' but otherwise pretty much ignores canon. Final chapter coming soon.

Over the next two months John thought about his brief encounter with the stranger a lot. Nearly every day, if he were being honest with himself, though in his defense, he’d only managed to pull once more in those months, and that had been a pretty disastrous one-night stand with a woman who’d turned out to be a lot more drunk than she’d seemed in the pub. It was hard not to fantasise about that dreamlike space of time on the Heath, when the whole thing seemed as though it might have been a fantasy. John did find it disturbing – mostly because it was disturbingly hot – to think about a male mouth on him, male hands undressing him, but he rationalized that a one-off didn’t mean that he was in any way gay, just that his libido wasn’t going to be too picky when offerings were slim.

He didn’t go back to the Heath. It was as though doing so would jinx it, and besides, the weather had taken a definitive turn towards cold and miserable. Once or twice, he went as far as searching on the internet for men looking for no-frills sex in London: not trying to find the man he’d met, just wondering whether this might be something he could do. But he always chickened out at the last minute. That night on the Heath – he remembered mercilessly taking the piss out of some politician a few years ago for his “moment of madness” excuse, but now it seemed like a pretty accurate description.

It helped, in a nasty way, that as autumn wore into winter and a dismal Christmas passed him by, he felt so grey and drained of energy that he wasn’t that interested in sex. He wasn’t getting better, he was getting worse. His leg hadn’t noticeably improved. His money was slowly running out and his bank had refused to extend his overdraft; he had no job, little social life, no prospects that genuinely appealed, and the only person to show him affection was Harry, and that was after a couple of bottles of wine.

Which was perhaps why, when he walked into Barts with Mike and saw the man he’d had sex with bent over a microscope, his first feeling was that the universe was playing a particularly cruel joke on him. He recognized him instantly, but then, he – Sherlock Holmes, of all the ridiculous names – was even more distinctive-looking than John had recalled. 

Mike was right there, so he schooled the shock of his reaction out of his face and tried to act normally, helped by the fact that Holmes seemed absolutely engrossed in whatever he was doing and showed not the faintest sign of recognizing John. Even when he stood in front of him, close enough to touch, close enough that John was looking into his eyes, and said, in a voice that John was trying very hard not to react to, “Afghanistan or Iraq?,” John still couldn’t tell, he couldn’t read him at all. The whole exchange was so quick, so brutal and John was so completely wrong-footed by Sherlock Holmes smiling at him brightly and – was that a _wink_? – and leaving in a flare of energy, that he was left blinking, clueless.

As he tried to keep up his end of the conversation with Mike on his way out of Barts, every nerve on edge in case Sherlock Holmes reappeared round a corner, John even wondered whether his own memories were untrustworthy. But surely, surely, there couldn’t be two men in London who looked like that? The whole encounter had been nightmarish, he told himself. Yet on the other hand, what with the adrenaline rush and the shock, he felt more alive than he had done in weeks.

John sat on his bed that night, after reading Sherlock Holmes’s website, and knew, knew absolutely, that there was no way he should be even contemplating looking at flats with this man. When what you knew about a prospective flatmate was that they played the violin, liked their own space, and, oh, liked to be involved in crime and to _pick up random men for sex in public places_ , then it seemed pretty fucking obvious that they were not a good prospect as a flatmate.

Except that John was desperately, hopelessly curious. He couldn’t stop replaying every nuance of the afternoon’s meeting in their head. Had Sherlock Holmes known exactly who John was, but decided not to show it? Was his wink a signal? Or could he really have forgottenthat they’d met before, that they’d had sex? It wasn’t as though John flattered himself on his distinctiveness, but there weren’t that many men his age walking round London with a cane. Could it be that Sherlock Holmes saw what had happened as so insignificant, or so common in his life, that it was basically wiped from his memory? He hadn’t been out of it on drugs or drink, had he? It was true that for all John knew, he might be one of hundreds he’d had since then. It didn’t seem very likely that Sherlock Holmes’s tally would be one unsatisfactory one-night stand in the months since John had met him.

Moving in with him would be insane. John had never even had a gay flatmate before. What if he had men back to the flat every night? What if John was in, and Holmes was having really gay sex in the bathroom, or the kitchen, or the living-room? Maybe with more than one person at a time? Would John be able to walk around in his dressing-gown or his boxers, if Holmes were there, looking at him with those eyes, eyes that John now knew to be steely blue-gray? What if he were in his dressing-gown, and Holmes came over to him, and he...

John stood up abruptly and went into the bathroom to splash cold water on his face.  The voice of reason was clear in his mind, sounding very like his therapist: do not move in with this man.  But then, John had always liked to live dangerously. And there was no point pretending that this wasn’t by far the most interesting thing that had happened to him since - 

Since he’d met Sherlock Holmes for the first time.

**

That was how John ended up showing up at Holmes’s – at Sherlock’s – flat, telling himself that it was OK to indulge his curiosity a little, and that looking at a flat certainly didn’t constitute an agreement to move in. But the flat was obviously fantastic, about a million times better than his institutional bedsit and even affordable, and Sherlock was – he was fascinating. John wanted to live in 221B Baker St almost desperately, but he knew he couldn’t do it without finding out if Sherlock recognized him, even if it would definitely mean a hideously awkward conversation, and possibly mean Sherlock backing out of taking John on as a flatmate. After all, if Sherlock hadn’t recognized John, he’d surely be embarrassed (even if he didn’t seem like the kind of man who had much time for embarrassment) and if he had, but wanted to pretend otherwise, he’d be unhappy about John pushing the issue.

Nonetheless, though, John had been psyching himself up to say something the minute Mrs Hudson left. He just hadn’t expected that Sherlock would leave first, and he certainly hadn’t expected to leave with him. He wasn’t going to talk about it where a cab driver could hear, he certainly wasn’t going to talk about it in the vicinity of half a ton of police officers, and over a corpse seemed a bit disrespectful. And Sherlock was crackling with energy, alight with it; John had never seen anything like it. He told his nagging conscience to shut up. He wasn’t going to throw a spanner in the works of a murder investigation, for God’s sake.

Nor, it turned out, was he going to make admissions about his sex life to random intimidating strangers who stalked and kidnapped him. It wasn’t in Ella’s notes, because he hadn’t told her. There were no cameras on the Heath. So this man, whoever he was, could try to intimidate John all he wanted, but since his tactics didn’t seem to take in the one thing that John was genuinely anxious about, they weren’t going to bother him.

And then he was back at the flat, and again it seemed like it might be an opportunity to speak to Sherlock. Except that John was busy, texting a murderer, and then they were off through the streets together. And then, finally, they were sitting down in a restaurant, the owner fussing over them, with plates of food arriving almost instantly, and John with nothing to do other than make conversation and watch Sherlock watching the street.

Sherlock seemed distracted, fidgety, gazing past John, ignoring the plate that the owner – Angelo – had set in front of him. John fiddled with his own surprisingly good pasta and tried not to stare. He had to get this over with.

“Umm, Sherlock?” he said, setting down his fork. Sherlock’s gaze snapped to him, disconcertingly. John felt himself start to blush.

“We, er, we’ve met before, haven’t we? I mean, before yesterday.”

Sherlock cocked his head slightly and regarded John. “Are you phrasing it like that out of reverence for my modesty, or because you don’t remember the circumstances?” he said, curious.

John gaped for a second and then recovered. “Oh, I remember,” he said. “I mean, you’re pretty memorable.”  He felt himself flushing even more: God, everything coming out of his mouth sounded like a bad innuendo.

“Yes,” said Sherlock, without modesty. His brows drew together a little. “Is this a problem? I assumed you didn’t wish to acknowledge it.”

“No, no problem,” said John. “Really, it’s OK. I just – wanted to check that you were OK with us moving in together. I wasn’t – ”

“I know it’s OK,” said Sherlock. He frowned, tapping a finger on the table, eyes scanning the street briefly, then flicking over John.

“Look, John, I’m flattered by your interest, but I feel I ought to tell you that I’m married to my work. I don’t have time for…” he waved a hand in an unclear but plainly dismissive gesture “ – girlfriends, boyfriends, all that.”

“No, I wasn’t – ” said John, “I’m not. I mean, I do usually do girlfriends. Women. Relationships. I’ve just been single for, for a while, and that was – um. When we. When we met. It was a one-off.”

“So it’s all fine?” said Sherlock.

“Yes,” said John, quickly. “Yes, I think so.”

“Good,” said Sherlock, already standing up, “because I believe our man is here.”

*** 

In terms of how he’d imagined that conversation going, John thought later, more than once, it could have been worse. He didn’t feel as though he’d really made his point, but then he wasn’t sure what point he’d wanted to make. It had been established that they were going to forget about the whole having-had sex thing. Which was the right decision, obviously, the way that two grown-up men should behave. They would start afresh.

The problem was that John couldn’t stop _thinking_ about it. Not all the time, not constantly. Most of the time, as weeks and then months passed filled with an excitement he’d almost forgotten existed, Sherlock was his maddening, brilliant, exasperating flatmate and increasingly his friend. But just now and then, whenever Sherlock smiled at him in a certain way, a way that John couldn’t help reading as knowing, he would feel a small jolt of lust, his body reminding him that he knew what that mouth felt like on his cock.

Maybe more than now and then, if he were completely honest with himself.  Sometimes he would look at Sherlock and think about it: how could he help it? And whenever Sherlock disappeared without telling John where he was going, it was natural to wonder if he’d gone out looking for someone.

John didn’t raise the subject with Sherlock explicitly, but when the surgery was giving away free condoms, he brought some back and left half of them, neatly piled in a paper bag, on the kitchen table beside Sherlock’s microscope. They sat there for two weeks, until he gave in and tidied them into the bathroom cupboard. Perhaps Sherlock just didn’t like the brand.

And then there was a week or so after, when Sherlock had managed to piss John off more than usual about the question of picking up his own dry-cleaning. John wouldn’t have said it was retaliation, exactly. It simply so happened that he chanced to see some new leaflets on sexual health testing on the stand in their local library, and it made sense to leave a few under Sherlock’s microscope, where he couldn’t conceivably miss them. It was normal to be concerned about Sherlock’s well-being, surely.

The leaflets vanished when John wasn’t looking, but two days later there was an envelope on his side of the breakfast table: heavy, cream-coloured paper, embossed, John noticed, with the name of a famous addiction recovery clinic, and addressed to Sherlock Holmes, Esq. It was unopened. John hesitated. Sherlock was still in his room but he’d evidently meant John to read this. He slit it open carefully and scanned the letter: test results, for every conceivable sex-related disease, all negative. It was dated four months back. John was still staring at it when Sherlock’s bedroom door opened and he appeared in the living-room. He and John looked at each other.

“Satisfied, doctor?” Sherlock said, with an undertone John couldn’t read.

 “You didn’t even open it.” 

“Usually I don’t bother keeping them. That one was, hmmm, a bookmark, I believe. I don’t need to open them, it’s Mycroft’s concern, and I’m sure he’d start meddling if there was anything to be concerned about.”

“Mycroft made you go for testing, I take it?” said John. “Good. You shouldn’t be so bloody cavalier about your own health.”

“‘Cavalier’?” said Sherlock. “You should know better than that. Mycroft made me agree to an annual test years ago, before I was clean. Now he just likes making me waste my time.” He sighed, and collapsed dramatically into his chair.

“I’m surprised you haven’t reported to him that I do know what a condom is used for. All of you are so pathetically engaged in other people’s lives: I suppose it makes a change from the dreariness of your own.” He looked speculatively at John.

John opened his mouth to say something cutting back, and then shut it again.

“Stop trying to pick a fight, it’s not my fault you haven’t got a case on,” he said, and then hesitated. “You know I wouldn’t – you know I haven’t said anything to Mycroft.”

“Why would I care if you did?” Sherlock reached for his laptop and turned it on aggressively. “By all means, give him a blow-by-blow account.”

“Stop it,” said John.

“Stop what?” said Sherlock, smirking slightly. “You started it.”

“I did not – ” said John, and then stopped himself. “Sod this, I’m going out for breakfast. If you trash the flat while I’m out, I’m giving your suits to Oxfam, so don’t even think of it.”

“God, you’re boring,” said Sherlock with feeling.

“And don’t leave rude comments on my blog,” said John, without much hope, putting his wallet in his back pocket and heading for the door.

*** 

Sherlock was lying on the sofa staring at the ceiling when John got back in, several hours later, so John tidied up a bit around him and then settled down to some aimless surfing of the web.  He was aware of Sherlock flouncing about in the background, but put on his headphones and ignored him until he half-heard his voice saying John’s name. He took off his headphones and looked over the screen.

“What is it?” 

“I said, we should have sex,” said Sherlock, loudly.

“What?,” said John. Sherlock had turned to face him, his dressing-gown loosely open over a thin T-shirt and pyjama trousers. As John looked, he did something – undulated in some way – so that suddenly his position looked less lazy and more deliberate, showing off. John felt a familiar pulse of desire, but alongside it, an even more familiar pulse of irritation. 

“Don’t wind me up,” he said, “I’ve had enough of that today already.”

“I wasn’t,” said Sherlock. “I’m bored, you’re interested, there’s nothing better to do, so – let’s shag and see what happens.”

“Oh God, you’re serious,” said John. “No, no way. Absolutely not.”

“But you want to,” said Sherlock. He sounded petulant.

John didn’t bother denying it, he’d always been pretty sure that Sherlock knew exactly what John sometimes thought about him.

“You can’t just come out with this stuff, Sherlock. I’m not going to have sex with you just because you’re fed up and there’s nothing else to do,” he said. “Especially since you’re my – my flatmate. And I’ve got a girlfriend, remember? Caroline? Why the hell would you think I’m going to jump into bed with you?”

Sherlock’s eyes were bright: mocking, John thought. “Interesting how high your _girlfriend_ comes on your list of excuses,” he said. “Why would I think you want to have sex with me? Do you really need me to answer that question? I know exactly what you want. Probably better than you do, with your stupid repression and your feeble insistence on your shopworn heterosexuality.”

“And that right there is why no power on earth could get me to shag you,” said John. “Just because you’re” – he made a sweeping gesture towards Sherlock – “doesn’t mean you can get away with being the rudest and most insensitive bastard in London.”

Sherlock sat up, his eyes still glittering dangerously. “I didn’t notice you caring about my _personality_ when you had your cock down my throat,” he said.

John felt his words like a shock. He pushed back his chair from the table. Sherlock sat up a bit more, probably hoping that John was going to punch him. But he had no intention of giving Sherlock the satisfaction of a proper fight.

“I’m going to my room, and then I’m going out,” he said.

“Maybe I’ll go out, too,” said Sherlock, meaningfully.

“Fine,” said John. “Do whatever the fuck you want, I don’t care.” And then he retreated, hastily, before he or Sherlock said something that would be genuinely unforgivable. He told himself he couldn’t believe that Sherlock had used their past encounter against him, but another part of his mind noted that it had only been a matter of time. And yet another small part wondered whether Sherlock did, genuinely, want to have sex with him, and what he was going to do if Sherlock – if Sherlock tried harder.   

 ***

The next day, John was sure he’d been in the right, but he still felt guilty. The truth was, maybe Sherlock hadn’t been entirely unjustified in assuming John would be up for it, and if he’d been incredibly irritating, it was only in his usual Sherlockian fashion, which John ought to be able to deal with by now.

Sherlock possibly felt guilty as well. Naturally, he didn’t apologize, but when John asked him to clear some of his stuff off the kitchen table, he did it, which was roughly the equivalent. John thought perhaps they could forget the whole conversation had happened.

As it turned out, however, this was wildly optimistic. He should have known that saying no to Sherlock would only encourage him.  Only a few nights later, three days of solid rain and still no case, Sherlock was restless, pacing around, picking up and putting down his violin, while John tried to concentrate on a mediocre thriller.  Sherlock walked to the window and looked out at the rain; John looked up and caught his profile, which was managing to look dissatisfied.

“I might go out,” said Sherlock.

“Mmm,” said John. “Bit wet.” He’d eaten, but if Sherlock wanted to go for food then maybe he could go with him; he’d have room for some dumplings.

“I mean _out_ ,” said Sherlock. He turned and leant against the window-sill, crossing his arms. “I doubt the weather will put everyone off.”

“Oh,” said John.

“Unless you wanted me to stay in,” said Sherlock. He’d lowered his voice, and as John looked at him, he licked his lips, deliberately. John’s heart-rate rose, and he felt himself flush. He looked down at his book for a moment, calming himself.

“No,” he said. “I was just thinking that we could go for Chinese, though.”

Sherlock raised both eyebrows at him, sardonic. John didn’t look away.

“Fine,” said Sherlock after a moment. “Have it your way. Get your coat.”

John stood up, not missing how Sherlock’s eyes ran over his body, doubtless noting hundreds of tiny signs of arousal, and did as he was told.

***

That had been Saturday. A day or so later, he was sure that Sherlock was running some kind of campaign. It was typically Sherlock that they’d been living together for months, and that only when John explicitly turned him down did he decide that he was definitely interested. It was also typical of Sherlock to refuse to recognize that John might have good reasons to turn him down.

Of course, it was true that John himself wasn’t quite sure what those reasons were. He knew that he’d have said yes instantly if Sherlock had propositioned him in the first week or so after they’d met, straight or not. It was just that, now that they knew each other better, now that he was – invested – in Sherlock, he couldn’t do it. Sherlock picked men up for anonymous gay sex in public places. John took women out for a coffee, and then to a film, maybe, and then dinner and some drinks, and then if he were lucky they ended up in bed, and if he were very lucky, in a relationship with plenty of mutual affection and good sex. He hadn’t given up on Caroline being the right person for this, either, though they’d only been seeing each other for a few weeks.

Just because there’d been a number of exceptions to this MO didn’t mean it wasn’t what he was aiming for. Just because sex with Sherlock would probably be fantastic, didn’t mean that he was going to give up on these aims. Sherlock could doubtless have utterly casual sex with John – that was his entire proposition, as far as John could see – but for John, it wouldn’t be casual. Not any more.

The problem was that it was hard to remember what a bad idea it would be when Sherlock was bent on soliciting him. If he’d smiled at John in that way that seemed exclusively for him, the way that said that John was fascinating, and almost made up for the rest of the world’s dullness, it would have been all over. If he’d worn that one suit John always noticed, leaned back in his chair, crossed his legs and told John secrets about someone they knew, and then stood up and come over to him, John didn’t know if he could have held out.

Luckily, however, Sherlock seemed wedded to the direct approach. Hence, on Monday, he came into John’s bedroom in nothing but a very loosely-knotted towel as John was getting dressed and bluntly proposed that he fuck him. John was so pissed off at his arrogance, and at Sherlock yet again barging into his room without permission, that he almost forgot to be aroused. It was only after actually shoving Sherlock out of the door that his proposition truly hit him, and he had to lean against it with his eyes closed for a few moments practicing breathing exercises, before he could finish putting his jeans on. 

On Tuesday, after getting up and finding Sherlock in the kitchen shirtless and wearing indecently tight trousers, John went to the Yard and begged Greg to find him something to do, but it seemed that London’s criminals were having a holiday. He’d given up and was instead coaxing Greg to meet him in the pub after work when his phone dinged:

“Still bored. Still interested. How hard do you think I could make you come, using only my hands? – SH”

“Fucking hell,” said John. He wrenched his eyes away. “Seriously, Greg.”

“What’s he done now?,” said Greg, fascinated. 

“Nothing,” said John, grimly. “He’s messing with my head, as usual.”

“NO, DROP IT,” he sent back, and then gave Greg his best pleading look. “Have you anywhere I could hide out for a while?” he asked.

He ended up spending three hours in the break room reading the papers cover to cover, and then all afternoon and evening in the pub. Since this avoidance strategy had the merits of working, he decided to try it on Wednesday as well, but this time Sherlock found him in a Starbucks forty minutes walk from the flat without seemingly trying, and sat down opposite him.

“We could spend all afternoon in bed,” he said, without preamble.

“Or not,” said John. “Sherlock, didn’t anyone ever tell you that no means no?”

“What could you possibly have to do that’s more appealing?” said Sherlock, sounding genuinely frustrated. “I don’t understand your reasons, which is unsurprising as they are _completely irrational_.”

“Look,” said John. “We’ve been living together for ages. How is it that you’ve suddenly decided that this” – he waved a hand vaguely between them – “would be a good idea?”

Sherlock shrugged. “Hadn’t occurred to me,” he said. “Sometimes it doesn’t, for months. But when it does…” He looked at John through his lashes.

John’s mouth went dry. He took a large gulp of coffee.

“What about Caroline? Or anyone else? How do you think any woman’s going to react if she finds out I’ve been sleeping with my male flatmate? Do you think she’s going to want to go out with me, after that?”

“Why would you tell her?” said Sherlock, sounding genuinely puzzled. “And besides, we’ve already had sex. The horse has definitively bolted.”

“I would tell her, Sherlock, because unlike you I actually care about honesty in relationships,” said John. Sherlock wasn’t making any effort to lower his voice, and he could see the couple at the nearest table stealing glances at them. “And telling someone about a one-night stand in the _past_ is not the same as telling them that you’re involved with one of your friends, believe me.”

“So you’ve told – I’ve forgotten her name already, the latest one – you’ve told her that you picked me up on Hampstead Heath last summer?”

“We’re not talking about this,” said John, in a heated whisper. “It’s none of your business. And what do you mean, _I_ picked _you_ up? No, wait, forget it. This conversation is over.”

“Oh,” said Sherlock. “You’re ashamed. That’s it, isn’t it? You’re attracted to me, but you’d rather not be. You never intended to have sex with a man, and you regret it.”

“I’m not ashamed!” said John. “I said it was fine. And keep your voice down, for God’s sake. I mean, oh hell.” He resisted the temptation to put his head in his hands.

“Or perhaps it’s less universal,” said Sherlock, a new note in his voice. “Now that you know who I am, what I am, there might be reason to regret. That would – explain things.”

“No,” said John. “No, you’re completely – “ He could see hurt in Sherlock’s face, but he couldn’t tell if it was genuine or feigned. Sherlock stood up abruptly.

“I’ve some inquiries to make from my homeless network,” he said, buttoning his coat. “Don’t wait up.”

“Wait, hang on,” said John, caught between leaping up after him and not wanting to make a scene in a busy café. In the few seconds of paralysis, Sherlock was already gone, sweeping out the door at his fastest pace. The young woman at the next table was scowling at John disapprovingly; he couldn’t meet her eyes.

Damn Sherlock anyway, how did he always manage to twist his bad behaviour into John feeling guilty? Of course John wasn’t ashamed of him, how could Sherlock imagine…? Of course he didn’t regret…except that maybe he did. Maybe Sherlock knew him too well. Because if John had met Sherlock for the first time at Barts, surely everything would have been a lot more simple?


	3. Ever Since That Night

After that, John didn’t see Sherlock for the next forty-eight hours. He thought about texting him, but he wasn’t sure what to say. He was almost worried enough to text Mycroft, but the idea of explaining that he was worried that Sherlock had a renewed interest in sex and was possibly off indulging in it in a reckless fashion was off-putting, to say the least. By Friday night, he’d decided that if he hadn’t seen Sherlock by Saturday, he would have to at least check with Greg and Molly, with Mycroft as a final resort. He had a date with Caroline at her local pub that night, to meet her friends. He thought of cancelling, but after the last week he needed something normal, something that involved ordinary conversations about everyday stuff. It was early days with him and Caroline, so if he went back to Baker St alone after the evening, nothing would be odd about that.

Caroline’s friends were nice, if obviously a bit wary of him, and John kept up his end of a discussion about whether American or British TV shows were better without too much effort. He diverted conversations about his past or his present living arrangements with practiced skill, and he thought that on the whole he was making a reasonable impression as a fairly ordinary and trustworthy bloke. He sat close to Caroline, bought everyone a round, and made sure to get her her favoured drink without asking.

But his heart wasn’t in it. It was a horrible night, pouring yet again and unseasonably cold, and he couldn’t help wondering what Sherlock was doing and whether he was OK, and thinking about how scathing he’d be about John’s evening. He was aware that everything he was saying to these perfectly friendly people was accurate, and yet none of it was in any way representative of his actual day-to-day life with Sherlock. He wondered what they would do if he told them the truth.

It was a relief to slip away to the privacy of the loo for a moment. It was an old-fashioned pub, and their men’s toilet was a small separate room with tatty flowered wallpaper and swirling '70s carpet on the floor. John flushed the loo and washed his hands, then took his phone from his pocket, allowing himself the luxury of checking for messages from Sherlock again, and idly thinking, resolve weakened by a couple of pints, of texting him.

Someone knocked on the door. John glanced at it, he’d bolted it.

“Hang on a minute,” he called, reluctantly pocketing his phone. He unbolted the door, ready to apologize for taking so long.

Sherlock was standing on the other side. Before John could react, he crowded him back into the loo, reached behind him and locked the door.

“What –” said John, disbelieving, poised between concern and anger.

Sherlock put a hand over his mouth. His fingers were firm and cool, damp; his hair and coat were wet from the rain and his eyes were boring into John’s. There was something different about him, though John couldn’t pinpoint what.

“I saw you come in here,” Sherlock said, deliberately. “Long time no see, doctor. Quite a coincidence.” He smiled, a flash of teeth.

John felt the room swirl around him for a moment. Sherlock’s voice was utterly confident, but John looked into his eyes and thought he read some uncertainty there. He moved closer and bent his head to John’s ear, leaving a bare inch of space between them.

“Tell me you haven’t thought about meeting me again,” he said, and licked a stripe below John’s ear.

John jolted slightly and heard himself make an undignified noise. He ought to put a stop to this, to tell Sherlock to come off it, they were in a pub toilet for God’s sake, to walk away and leave him standing here, but Sherlock was breathing softly on the sensitive skin he’d just licked, his hand left John’s mouth and slid down his side to cup his arse, and John wanted him so much that he could barely breathe.

“Yes,” he said, slightly hoarse. “Yes, I did.” He needed to shut out his common sense. He reached up, tugged at Sherlock’s shoulder, and turned his head so that he could kiss him. Sherlock opened his mouth immediately and kissed him back, deeply, hot and filthy in the best possible way; John thought about that mouth on his cock and his knees weakened. He pushed Sherlock against the wall, awkward in the small space, and shoved up against him, his thigh pressing between Sherlock’s legs. He was rewarded by Sherlock pushing back against him, almost thrusting, and breaking off to pant into John’s mouth, eyes closed.

“We have to be quick,” said John, belying his own words by tugging Sherlock’s shirt collar to one side and biting at his neck. 

Sherlock’s eyes slid open and flickered round the room, perhaps assessing what they could conceivably get up to in such a small space.

“Mmm,” he said, and he worked his hands down between them, trying to undo John’s belt.

“Let me,” said John, and he stepped back a fraction and worked on his own belt and trousers. Sherlock copied him, leaning back against the wall, chest rising and falling. He met John’s eyes and gave him his predatory smile again; false, but utterly effective. John paused, self-conscious about exposing himself in front of a Sherlock who seemed as though he might never have seen him wandering round the flat in his underwear. Sherlock’s eyes narrowed, mapping John’s uncertainty: he reached out and pulled him in, kissing him again, and unerringly reaching down to slide a hand over his cock. John moved to reciprocate, Sherlock shifting down the wall slightly, and there was a moment of awkwardness before John realized what he was trying to do, and shifted in turn so that they were pressed together, skin on skin.

“Christ,” said John, unable to stop himself from thrusting forward.

Sherlock extracted a hand, spat on it, and then reached down and took them both in hand, together; John bucked into the feeling of his fingers wrapped around their cocks. He tried to help, fumbling, but Sherlock batted his hand away and moved them together, so John braced his hands on the wall and concentrated on short, sweet thrusts forward. It didn’t take long: it felt as though he’d been building up to this through weeks of frustration, and maybe it was genuinely the same for Sherlock, whose rhythm faltered as he gasped something that might have been either a swear-word or John’s name. John moved his hips a bit faster into Sherlock’s loose grip, and there – that was it. “Fuck,” he said, voice almost breaking. “Fuck, Sherlock, right there,” and then he was coming, and Sherlock’s hips moved against him once, twice, and he was shaking under John, making a helpless noise that John already wanted to hear again and again.

John leant against him and breathed for a moment, before his surroundings came back to him. He moved back slightly, wincing. Sherlock wordlessly produced a tissue from his pocket and handed it over. John did the best he could; somehow his jeans seemed to have escaped, though Sherlock’s suit definitely hadn’t. John gestured at him. 

“Em. Your trousers are a bit of a state”, he said. He wasn’t sure if he should – break character, though if they were still acting, knowing Sherlock’s name had been a bit of a giveaway in any case.

“Doesn’t matter,” said Sherlock, sounding much more familiar. “Yours are fine.” He pushed a bit and John stepped back further, reluctantly. He pulled up his pants and trousers, awkward. Sherlock did the same, then buttoned his coat over any evidence.

“That was – “ said John.

“Good, thank you,” said Sherlock. “Apologies for interrupting your evening, though.”

“Er,” said John. “I – "

Sherlock motioned to him to be quiet, head turned to the door. “Give me a moment or two,” he said, undoing the bolt. John moved to stop him, which meant that Sherlock opened the door with John’s hand on his arm. There was no-one immediately outside, but as Sherlock stepped out, one of Caroline’s male friends, James, John thought, appeared at the end of the short corridor. John froze. Sherlock pulled away from him and strode past in a swirl of cloth, leaving John and James looking at each other.

“That was my – “ said John.

“I was just going to use the – “, said James at the same time.

“Right,” said John. He felt himself starting to blush. “Look, I should probably be going.”

James crossed his arms, in a pose that John thought was probably meant to be menacing, but missed it by quite some way. “Caro’s one of my oldest friends,” he said.

John had an instant of guilt, but mainly, he just wanted James or whoever to get out of the way so that he could leave this whole situation behind, catch up with Sherlock, and sort out whatever the hell was going on.

“I really – I have to go,” he said. “I’ll ring Caroline and explain.” Though he was pretty sure he wouldn’t.

James snorted, eyeing John with disgust. “You’re a real piece of work,” he said. “What the hell’s going on, acting like her boyfriend to her face and then, then, whatever. She deserves better than you, mate – “

“Fair enough,” said John, holding up his hands, placating. This was wasting time. He stepped past James, who moved aside as though touching John would pollute him. John felt that he was embarrassed, humiliated maybe, but at a remove: the important thing was to find Sherlock. But when he got out through the side door, a safe distance away from Caroline and her friends, the street was empty, with no sign of Sherlock through the driving rain.

***

John got home to Baker St nearly an hour later, soaked to the skin. He peeled off his coat as he walked in, and then kicked off his wet shoes, glancing around. The flat was dark, but there was light coming from under Sherlock’s door. He went and knocked on it, hesitated, and then went in without waiting for an answer. Sherlock was sitting at the head of his bed, laptop balanced on his knees, illuminated by his bedside light.

John shut the door behind him and leant against it. He tried to sort out his thoughts.

“Role-playing?” he said.

“I didn’t hear you complaining,” said Sherlock. He typed something rapidly.

“How did you even know where I was?” said John, though it wasn’t at all what he’d meant to say next.

“Does it matter?” Sherlock was still concentrating on the screen, but he had a familiar look on his face that meant he thought he was in trouble with John, but was planning to brazen it out.

“I’m not really angry,” said John. “Though I probably should be. I expect I’m single again, by the way, thanks for that.”

“I hadn’t planned on being seen,” said Sherlock, disgruntled. He tapped the keys vindictively.

“Sherlock,” said John, and sighed. “Could you put that down for a moment. Please.”

Sherlock looked wary, but he closed the screen, set the laptop to one side and folded his arms.

“I’m not ashamed of you,” John said, trying to let Sherlock see that he meant it. “I just can’t do some, some thing, where you might want to shag me sometimes, and other times you might be off, I don’t know, picking up other men or what have you. You might work like that, but I don’t.”

“Work like what?,” said Sherlock.

 “You know,” said John. “Cruising, or whatever you call it. Sex with strangers.”

Sherlock’s forehead creased. “It was what you wanted,” he said. “What you like. With men, anyway. You’d hardly be the first to enjoy a double life.”

“That’s – “ John said. “Are you taking the piss? You really believe I’d, what, have a girlfriend by day and go looking for gay sex by night? Last autumn – I told you that was a one-off. It wasn’t even on purpose; it was an, an accident. I wasn’t even expecting anything to happen.”

Sherlock snorted. “’One-off’, really, John. Do you know how many men in the same position would say that? Let’s say, hmmm, statistically 95%, shall we? And do you know how many of them have wives and girlfriends? So for our brief encounter you ‘accidentally’ ended up sitting on a bench in one of London’s most famous cruising grounds? In the middle of the night? And then you accidentally got off with a total stranger when you were what, hoping for a friendly chat? For God’s sake, don’t insult my intelligence any more than you do by just existing.” 

John blinked at him, his insides twisting sickeningly.

“OK,” he said. “OK, maybe ‘accident’ was a bit strong.” Sherlock rolled his eyes. “But I swear to you, that was the only time. I’ve shagged men before. I’m not – I’m not in some kind of fucking _denial_ about that. But that was – I was having a really bad night, and I felt like doing something stupid, but I didn’t really think I’d go through with it. And then you came along, and. Well.”

Sherlock still looked deeply skeptical, verging on downright scornful.

“And what about you?” said John, moving into the offensive. “This isn’t about what _I_ like.”

“What are you _talking_ about?,” said Sherlock. He reached up and tugged at his curls. “I was on a case, obviously.”

John stared at him.

“A case,” he said flatly.

“Of course a case. Someone had been robbing gay men on the Heath at knifepoint. The police didn’t know about it, no-one talked to them, but _I_ knew. I was looking for him.”

“And you thought it was me.”

“Not necessarily, though the cane would have been a nice touch in that event.” Sherlock sounded rather regretful. John looked at him in disbelief.

“What?,” said Sherlock. “You seemed interesting, I was intrigued. Besides, it helped my cover.”

“And what if I had tried to rob you at knifepoint?”

“I’d have stopped you, of course.”

“Jesus Christ,” said John. “You were walking round the Heath trying to pick up a dangerous criminal. Of course you fucking were, you – you tosser. Oh, bloody hell, Sherlock. How many men?”

“I do have some ability to spot a likely criminal, you know. There was you, and you can’t tell me I was wrong to consider it – ex-army, broke, PTSD and likely depression, illegal firearm, though that would have been a stretch to work out at the time“  - John tried to interrupt but Sherlock held up an imperious hand -  “obviously tense, interest engaged by a wealthy-looking man, armed with a _knife_ ,” he finished triumphantly.

“A Swiss Army knife!,” said John.

“Nevertheless.”

“So there was me and who else?”

“The perpetrator,” said Sherlock smugly. “Everyone else I passed that night and the next was obviously innocent. I didn’t have sex with him, though, since you seem to be so concerned for my virtue. He pulled a knife on me as soon as we were in the shadows: child’s play to disarm him, really.”

“But all this, today…And last week, you let me think...”

Sherlock heaved a sigh of impatience. “I can act, you know,” he said. “And I’m hardly responsible for your thoughts. I made it clear what I wanted. And I think this evening made it clear what you wanted, wouldn’t you say? Why not leave it at that?” There was something John couldn’t identify in his tone, something besides dismissal. He reached over, picked up his laptop, and opened it decisively, frowning at the screen.

John stared at him helplessly for a minute, during which Sherlock never looked up, half-formed sentences running through his head. Then he opened the door behind him and went downstairs to think.

***

He made a coffee on automatic pilot and then stood by the window and looked out at the rain, trying to sort out the mess in his head. Sherlock had, genuinely, for whatever reason, wanted to have sex with John – that much seemed clear, you couldn’t fake that level of enthusiasm – and he’d thought that the only way John would give in was – was if Sherlock wasn’t Sherlock. He’d thought that John would go back to Caroline and her mates in the pub and carry on as normal. He’d added up John’s actions and his words and he’d come up with this solution to get what he wanted, and John couldn’t believe how wrong Sherlock had been, except for the bit where he’d been right.

John contemplated leaving the flat, going round to Caroline’s, inventing an excuse. Maybe she’d let him in, and let him stay, and he could forget all this was happening; maybe he could be the person Sherlock obviously thought he was, ignoring the fact that this person was someone John would have held in total contempt. And what about Sherlock? All this time, he’d thought of Sherlock in a particular way, as a particular kind of gay man, and now – maybe Sherlock wasn’t even gay. All of John’s tightly-knit assumptions, the material of his life with Sherlock, were unraveling, spooling away, leaving him clutching at threads.

But one of those threads was that Sherlock – Sherlock who was beautiful and brilliant and his friend, however infuriating he might be – wanted John enough to devise a whole plan to seduce him, even while assuming that John didn’t feel the same. And that had to be sorted out, if nothing else was.

John went and fetched another mug of coffee, and then squared his shoulders and opened Sherlock’s door again. Sherlock looked up from typing, wary.

“Coffee,” said John. He went and set it on the bedside table. Sherlock watched him the whole way, a faint frown creasing his face. John went back round the bed and sat on the other side, beside Sherlock.

“Maybe some of what you think about me is right,” he said. “I don’t know, I feel like I haven’t got a fucking clue about anything right now. But I’m not going to leave you thinking that the reason I was turning you down last week was because I was ashamed, or embarrassed or whatever. It was just – you were – it was too much. I thought you were playing me, I didn’t think you meant it.”

Sherlock was still looking wary. “I rarely say anything I don’t mean,” he said.

“I’m saying that your seduction technique is shit,” said John. “But I still – oh, fuck this.”

Sherlock was only a couple of inches away, but it took what seemed an eternity for John to lean in and kiss him, heart hammering, waiting for Sherlock to pull away and say something sardonic. But Sherlock was still for a moment and then his mouth opened, and John shifted towards him a little more and they were kissing. John had intended it as a brief, even a friendly kiss, just to show it was Sherlock, himself, that he was interested in, that he cared about. But one brush of tongues and all of John’s body woke up, already singing with the memory of where this might lead, and he was frantic for more. He closed his eyes and concentrated on showing Sherlock how much he had wanted him, did want him, trying to shift up onto the bed and closer to him without breaking the kiss.

There was a crash. John broke off and looked over.

“Your laptop,” he said. “Shit, sorry.”

“Doesn’t matter,” said Sherlock, breathless and impatient. He tugged at John’s arm until John got the idea and crawled up to bracket Sherlock’s body with his knees: Sherlock slid down a bit and then pulled John down to kiss him again. The feel of Sherlock’s body under him, and the possibilities of having him lying down on a bed made John dizzy, made blood rush to his crotch, and he lost himself a bit in the swirl of tongues and in rubbing his hips against Sherlock, who seemed almost as desperate as John was.

Sherlock broke off, panting, and John kissed his neck, biting at it. He was slightly overwhelmed for a moment. This was Sherlock, he was in Sherlock’s bed, practically rutting against him. There was no get-out clause on this one. He had a moment of panic and then: good, he thought. Burn all the bridges, do something he couldn’t take back.

Sherlock was pulling at John’s shirt, ineffectual. “Clothes,” he said, “Get them _off_ ”

John sat up and pulled his shirt over his head, as fast as possible, reluctant to lose for a minute the sight of Sherlock struggling with his own buttons and watching John with what seemed like both desire and surprise. John scrambled inelegantly off the bed and stood for a moment, to strip as efficiently as possible, while Sherlock copied him on the other side. John was naked first: after a moment of hesitation, he got into the bed, under the covers for warmth. The bed was freezing, but Sherlock was sliding in beside him, solid and warm and definitely there. It seemed so extraordinary to have him naked that John wanted to spend hours just marveling over that fact, touching him, but he hadn’t lost his edge of desperation. He kissed Sherlock once, fast, and moved their bodies together, enjoying the feeling of naked skin and feeling Sherlock, hard against him.

“I think,” he said, swallowing a little nervously, drawing back and looking at Sherlock. “I want you to fuck me. If you want.”

Sherlock’s eyes widened.

“If you want to,” said John. “I mean, I have done it before, though not for a while, but I don’t know what you like – “

“Open to everything,” said Sherlock. “So to speak.” He looked at John speculatively, a familiar sizing-up look turned alien in this new context.

“Yes,” he said, and, surprisingly, grinned at John, wolfish. “Yes, definitely,” and one of his hands moved to the back of John’s head and pulled him into a bruising kiss.

After that, John lost the plot a little. He was sure he’d been in control up until then, but it seemed that as usual he’d just given Sherlock permission to take off, with John tagging along behind. He was lost in Sherlock’s mouth, and then Sherlock was somehow on top of him without ever stopping kissing him, and sliding a slick finger into him – how had he managed that? – and his face above John was that of the confident stranger he’d met twice before, except it had an edge of carefulness for John that was all Sherlock.

When John had said, ‘a while,’ he’d meant nearly a decade, and he’d expected pain or discomfort. It did feel strange, uncomfortable, but he didn’t care, he was going to keep up. “More,” he said, and Sherlock took him at his word. Sherlock fiddling with a condom – John didn’t have the brain left to wonder where he had magically produced it from - hooking John’s legs up and out, pushing into him, was almost too much, but he still wanted it, the look of intent concentration on Sherlock’s face, his breathing obviously hard to control, his arm shaking slightly where it was braced on the bed.

Sherlock stopped, all the way in, breathing hard, his eyes screwed shut. “John,” he said. “My God, you feel – Let me – “

“Yes,” said John. Sherlock opened his eyes and looked at him, and then kissed him almost tenderly.

“Touch yourself,” he said, a command.

John did: he hadn’t been thinking of his own pleasure, but when Sherlock moved in him, carefully but deliberately, in time with John’s strokes, his body seemed to remember what it was supposed to be doing, and he gasped with it. Sherlock made a low noise, strange and familiar, above him, and again, and John pushed up to meet him.

“More,” he said again. “Come _on_.”

“Yes,” said Sherlock, thrusting harder and gasping himself, and then, “Fuck, _John,_ ” and hearing his name sparked something in John’s nerves so that suddenly he was coming, helplessly. Sherlock groaned and thrust hard a few more times and then John felt him shuddering, pulsing.

Sherlock collapsed on John with all his weight, and John made an undignified noise of protest, half-petting his back, and half trying to shove him off. Sherlock was still panting, damply, into his neck, which was flattering.

“Sherlock,” said John. “Shove over, I can’t breathe.”

Sherlock made a grumbling noise and then heaved himself up and pulled out, carefully, rolling over to one side to dispose of the condom. John groped for the covers, somewhere off to the side, heaved them half over himself, and then lay still, regrouping. His body felt sore but also fantastic. He couldn’t remember how long it had been since he’d had sex twice in one day. Too long, evidently.

Sherlock rolled back onto the bed, onto his side, and draped a possessive arm over John.

“Well,” said John.

“Here we are,” said Sherlock.

“Here we are,” John agreed. There was silence for a moment while he considered things.

“Are you really gay?” he said.

“Is it truly possible that you consider that question relevant at this juncture?” said Sherlock.

“I suppose not,” said John. “I mean, is it just me?” He turned to meet Sherlock’s eyes. Sherlock was looking amused, fondly amused by John’s idiocy, which was usually not one of John’s favourite looks on him.

“You might want to define your terms more narrowly,” he said. “I assume you are interested in whether you’re an exception or the rule; ‘just’ in this sense implying that you have questions as to whether you are the only man I have had sex with, am having sex with, or will have sex with in the future.”

“Yes, that,” said John.

“No,” said Sherlock. “Yes. Maybe.”

“Hmm,” said John, working it out. “OK.”

 Sherlock’s fingers tapped out something fast and restless on his ribs.

“And you?” 

“Me?” said John. “Oh, right. Emm. Same. I mean, for me – just us, I suppose.” It should have felt dangerous to confess, after all his resistance, but he was drifting for the moment in a haze of well-being, all tension, at least for now, burned out. 

Sherlock’s fingers arrested their movements, and then he smoothed his hand across John’s ribs.

“I’m still pissed off with you, though,” John warned him. “And we’ll still need to talk about all this at some point.”

“Plus ça change,” said Sherlock.

“Pretentious wanker,” said John, comfortably. He felt comfortable altogether, suddenly, in Sherlock’s bed as though he belonged there, this now simply another thing they did together, would do together. He thought about what lucky chance had brought him to this point.

“Do you think we would have ended up here – I mean – ", he gestured vaguely, taking in their nakedness, the bed, Sherlock’s bedroom,  “if it hadn’t been for that night?”. He looked into Sherlock’s shifting eyes and wasn’t sure what answer he wanted.

Sherlock’s forehead creased in thought, and his eyes ran over John’s face.

“I can’t tell,” he said, grudging. “Too many variables – not impossible, but certainly more unlikely. And the effects of our first encounter are clearly still ongoing.”

“I’ve never believed in weird coincidences,” said John.

“Oh God,” said Sherlock, sitting up abruptly and looming over him. “If you say the word ‘fate’, I will smother you with this pillow.”

“So you don’t think the stars aligned and brought us here? That our good angels looked down and saw we should be together? That our karmic destinies are – " The rest was muffled, partly by Sherlock slapping a hand over his mouth and partly by John laughing too hard to keep going. He pushed Sherlock off, weakly

“I’m fine with luck,” he said.

Sherlock wrinkled his nose with disdain, but his eyes were bright with laughter. “Luck,” he said. “We’ll see.”

“Yes,” said John, thinking about everything that might lie ahead, and meeting Sherlock's eyes with resolution. “I suppose we will.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many apologies for the long wait for this. It's been almost finished since I posted the second chapter, but then various things combined to ensure that I've had no opportunity or energy to write for months. So when I had a few hours free this week and weekend, I've seized the chance to complete this: it's unrevised, unbeta'd, and once again owes its existence to public transport delays. Let's hope I make some more long trips soon. Thank you for reading and especial thanks to everyone who commented on the first parts. And even more thanks to Katzedecimal for rewriting some of this from Sherlock's POV in the comments on the second chapter - go and read if you haven't already! 
> 
> Titles and chapter titles are from the song lyrics, 'Strangers in the Night'


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